Bedroom Gallery
by SparkieSchteff
Summary: Vince gets back into painting and it starts to take over his life. Oneshot, apologies if the tenses change and what not - it's essentially insomnia ramblings. No violence or swearing etc


**Erm..Well where do I start with this?  
I think its a little weird since I wrote it in the early hours of the morning from lack of sleep (yes it's Insomnia ramblings) and it's mainly about art and the characters are probably not themselves, well mainly Vince. I guess you can class it as angst but there's really no shouting or violence in this...It's just dark I guess. Though it probably isn't even that x) **

**Basically it's about painting and portraying your emotions through paintings and this is a one shot but I guess I could think up a sequel or a prequel or some sort of POV from Vince or something like that, I don't know...I'll have a think and see what people think first.**

**Disclaiming: The line 'has no one told you she's not breathing' belongs to Evanescence not me and the Boosh belongs to Barratt and Fielding of course, I'm not making a penny from this but I might go make some artwork from it x) Oh and neither do I own 'Surrealissimo', I mean I only used the name and there's not really any reference to the docu, I just think it's an interesting word. **

**Oh and with the 'not under his own name thing' I'll let you decide on that. You'll understand if you read it. Oh and I'm aware I probably suck at naming paintings! :)  
xxx  
**

**The bedroom gallery**

Emotions are much like paint, they can be pushed around the big canvas of life by a huge paintbrush or they can be dotted on with a few strokes of a fine bristled brush. They can sometimes be manipulated by the artist and can be forced upon the painter by other influences such as the people around them, the people viewing their artwork. Emotions can be squeezed dry from a person much like paint is squeezed from a tube but can be mixed up with water, tears, to make the paint seem to flow more from the brush.

He always thought too deeply when he painted and half the time he scared himself with the nonsense his mind came up with and a couple of times the paintings or drawings that came from his thoughts frightened him too. Some confused him while some portrayed his moods perfectly but most were becoming more dark, the opposite of what people saw him as. He never knew where the artwork came from exactly, most of the time. He hardly ever used a model, though he did occasionally as he felt it gave his mind a break. He'd even used a mirror on a few occasions and painted self portraits but had distorted them to make himself unrecognisable, secretly he sometimes painted himself as he saw himself and then compared the work with paintings of how others saw himself. There was a huge contrast. Usually between colour and black and white.

It was his best friend who bought him all the new art equipment, Howard had gone to the art shop and bought him canvases and paints and a brand new set of brushes whose bristles were softer than his raven hair. At first he didn't dare use the brushes as they were so beautifully new but eventually the temptation had taken over and the paints had been screaming at him to be squirted form the tube and mixed around on the material canvas. Amongst the painting things there were sketchbooks of different sizes and even one full of brown parcel paper, there were charcoals and pastels and numerous pencils both graphite and colour. He knew why Howard had bought him all this stuff, it was just to cheer him up and try to get him to talk to him but he didn't want to talk. Instead he talked through his artwork, he let his hands do the talking and the paint do the reciting.

It wasn't long before he had filled each canvas and emptied each tube of paint, flecks of dried acrylic stuck to the handles of the brushes but never the bristles which weren't as soft as they used to be. They were rougher and split with being used too much and too hard but he liked the effect they made with the paint across the stretched material.

It wasn't long before Howard gave in to Vince's moping. He went out and bought him several more canvases each of different sizes and gave them to him expecting a smile but only received a thank you before the young artist fled to the bedroom and slammed the door behind him never to emerge until later when dinner was ready.

Vince never showed his finished work to Howard, Naboo or Bollo, in fact he kept them secret from everybody. Even at night when both he and Howard would climb into bed, Howard expected to see the paintings before the light was flicked off for the night but the canvases were always turned the other way, the paintings always faced the wall even if they were still wet. Flecks of acrylic decorated parts of the walls where wet paint had been lay on them but Vince didn't care and Howard wasn't phased as long as Vince was keeping himself busy.

The young man eventually stopped going to work and stayed in his bedroom surrounded by dirty plates caked in paint and old jam jars filled with multi-coloured waters along with several brushes and battered and squeezed tubes of paint. The bin was full of old tubes that were empty or dried up from when he accidentally left them for a few nights without the lids on, he never cared because he knew he could go out and buy another. Or Howard could.

Whenever dinner or breakfast was ready, Vince would often appear from the bedroom covered in splashes of paint, his arms were covered with multicoloured acrylics and even sometimes his face. Eventually he took to wearing an old tattered white shirt of Howard's, which he had given to Vince willingly, and soon the shirt never seemed to come off the young artist's back. Sometimes Howard caught Vince wearing it to bed and getting wet paint on the sheets and duvet, the paint seemed to get everywhere. Under Vince's nails, over his skin, his clothes and the carpet and always the walls but never in his hair. He never tied it back and never tucked it out of the way, he always styled it as usual but it never seemed to see a spot of paint. His hair seemed to repel the stuff.

Howard, Naboo and Bollo started to see a little less of Vince as the days wore on and eventually they realised that painting and drawing were taking over his life and the best friends' shared bedroom.

Torn out pages of sketches and detailed drawings littered the floors in piles, the paper had started to yellow from being out in the open allowing dust to attack the sheets. Corners had been torn from him walking past them or catching them as he sat sprawled on the floor with a sketchbook in his lap, often he would shift his legs to stop them from going numb and would catch and kick piles of drawings and paintings. The drawings always faced the floor, they were never revealed.

"Can I see your work sometime, Vince?" Howard asked one day while sitting on his bed that seemed to have been taken over by sheets upon sheets of drawings and buckled paintings but the young artist simply turned to his friend and replied with;

"No, not yet. I'm not finished."

"But how many more things are you going to do? It looks like there's a thousand sheets of paper in here!"

"Oh most of the drawings aren't related to the paintings. Some of that is stuff I do when I get bored or lose inspiration."

"I'm not buying you anymore paint." But Vince shrugged.

"I'll get it myself." Of course Howard lied and always asked to accompany Vince on his treks to the art shop but the young artist wasn't interested in company, he just wanted the supplies to carry on his work before the idea faded.

He often propped a canvas up against the wall letting it's blankness stare him in the face while he sat cross legged in front of it with a paint brush clenched between his teeth. The paint sat by his thighs awaiting to be squeezed one more time onto a plate or sheet of newspaper, he didn't care what he used as a palette as long as it did its job. The water jars surrounded him, usually he filled at least four of them just incase however he always knocked at least one over while painting sending coloured water cascading over the carpet threatening to soak his jeans and socks and ruin the drawings stacked near by.

He never cared if the water did spill everywhere though.

To start a painting he always prepared the paint squeezing it into neat blobs along the edge of the plates leaving room to mix in the middle, he used black the most and had several empty tubes in the bin. He'd drench his brush in the sticky paint and run it softly over the canvas dragging the colour along the material then he'd go for a different colour or carry on and map out his idea. The brush would often be held in his mouth as he squeezed more paint onto the palette he had made, a few times he dipped his fingers straight into the stuff and applied it quickly and harshly to the canvas, sometimes he stroked the paint on if his mood was clumsy or lethargic. It always depended.

When he finished his work he would always sign it but never under his own name, he would always print the date on the back in a permanent marker along with the title of the piece if he had bothered to make one up. He usually stopped writing or painting when there came a knock at the door but this time he carried on writing the title; 'Has no one told you she's not breathing' to the back of his canvas as Howard entered gingerly careful not to stand on any drawings or paintings.

"Vince...About all this artwork." The young artist took a deep breath, the scent from the marker filling his nostrils as he looked up and capped the pen. A small smile escaped his mouth.

"What about it all?" He arranged the canvas against the wall with its image facing away from the two of them.

"Well, it's a bit much. It's taking over your life little man." As he sat on the carpet and lent on the bed he had to shift a few pots of paint and carefully move a jar of water before he spilt it and stained the floor, "Why do you do it so much?"

"Because it makes me feel better."

"When will it all be finished?"

"When I feel better."

Eventually he did finish it all.

Howard, Naboo and Bollo had sat in the flat listening to several loud thumps on the walls, the sound of hammer on nail coming from Vince's art studio, they had tried the door but the artist had pushed a chair up against the handle. They could only wait but finally he came out and for once he wasn't covered in paint and he wasn't wearing the old tatty shirt but was wearing his usual attire of elegant clothing.

"I've finished." He stated plainly while searching through the fridge for a cold drink or something to eat, he said nothing more and merely watched as his three friends ventured into the bedroom.

The carpet was still caked in paint but there wasn't a single tube of paint or brush to be seen, the water stains were clear on the floor but most of the paper drawings had gone. They had been pushed under the bed of course along with the art equipment.

Along the walls were numerous canvases lined up and hanging in place by a single nail. They covered the bedroom and portrayed figures or objects and sometimes they were abstract and surreal, the names could not be seen clearly but Vince knew them all off by heart and could recite them if they asked, and they did.

"It's just called Surrealissimo." He stated while sipping the orange juice in his hand, he stood in the doorway not looking at his work or his friends, only if they asked, "That's called Collapse." he informed Howard.

"It's just called Weak and Tired."

"Fury."

"Self-loathing."

"Under the safety of the Moon." And the names carried on, often one word long or a full sentence. Sometimes the names didn't make sense but more than half the time they sent chills down the spines of the flatmates.

"Punctured imagination."

"One night stand."

"Regrets."

"Can't see herself for her own vanity."

"What about this one?" Howard asked as he had pointed to the one by the door, the one hanging next to Vince even though he did not acknowledge it until his friend had asked. He starred at it as though he were seeing it for the first time, he tilted his head as the dark colours swam around before his eyes. The paintings had decreased in colour as they had progressed around the room and the last one was simply black and white.

And then in a flat and emotionless voice as he starred at the work and swirled the orange juice in his glass he answered his friend; "Fixed."


End file.
